


Polyphemus Eyespots

by Zaxal



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Bilingual Character(s), Demonic Possession, M/M, Moths, Pre-Slash, Squick, but that's a thing that happens, look i don't know how to tag this to tell you that a moth crawls out of someone's mouth ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 08:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15991376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaxal/pseuds/Zaxal
Summary: The first time he had looked upon Tomas and felt a stirring of hope, he had known that it was inevitable. A demon would wear his face. It would steal his tongue. It would kill Marcus to ignore the vile things it made him feel.Yet, he is still unprepared.





	Polyphemus Eyespots

_"Estarás bien. Respiras, respiras."_

_"Hace daño, Marcus."_

_"Yo sé, yo sé, pero te necesito ser fuerte."_

_"¿Para ti?"_

Tomas's breathing shudders, a weak noise clawing at his throat. He tries to smile, and his dry lips crack and bleed.

Marcus has seen countless possessions. They are all uniquely horrible; the boils, the welts, the cracked teeth, the sweat and pus and blood. 

He has seen a demon wearing Tomas's skin before. How could he not? Demons always find the weakest point in which to pry their wicked claws, ripping it open to be exploited again and again. The first time he had looked upon Tomas and felt a stirring of hope, he had known that it was inevitable. A demon would wear his face. It would steal his tongue. It would kill Marcus to ignore the vile things it made him feel.

Yet, he is still unprepared.

 _"Sí. Soy egoísta,"_ he confesses, hands shaking as he cradles Tomas's head.

Tomas trembles, shakes his head, but the movement causes him to stiffen, hands gnarling as he yanks against the bindings, a wretched sound tearing from his throat as every nerve sings with pain, his eyes wide and wild.

"Tomas," Marcus breathes, smoothing his hair away from his sweaty face. Tomas feels clammy beneath his hands. "Easy."

\-----

There's no telling when the damn thing slipped in. It could have been the last exorcism when the demon turned tail and fled after a day. It could have been biding its time since the first time a demon slipped inside Tomas's head all the way back in Chicago.

That seems unlikely. Tomas has touched holy water and crucifixes. He has not been burned by them.

But the demon inside him is old and wretched. Its sinister game seems to be this: chewing Tomas alive from the inside, weakening his resolve through pain. It is not interested in Marcus. It hasn't openly spoken to him since this started.

Were it not for Tomas's certainty, Marcus might have thought him very, very sick at first blush. But Tomas had come to him, shaking and pale. "It is inside me. It is not me." He had nearly collapsed, and when Marcus held him steady, he hadn't believed him.

"The chains, Marcus. Please..."

"Tomas, maybe we should take it easy, yeah? Tell me what's going on-"

The trembling had stopped almost on a dime, and Tomas had looked at him as if he _hated_ him. It had chilled him to the bone. "The _chains,_ " he'd snarled, his voice rough and discordant and hands clutching at Marcus's in an attempt to free himself.

Marcus had locked him in the motel room's bathroom, hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door between them and the outside world, and started preparing. When he'd opened the door again, prepared for a fight, Tomas was curled up, head bowed over the toilet as he retched.

If he'd had any lingering doubt, it was rather chased away by the sight of a fuzzy brown, orange, and pink moth climbing out of Tomas's mouth, flaring its wings so that two dark eyespots stared into his soul.

\-----

"You should be careful," Tomas warns, or perhaps it is the thing trying to rot Tomas from the core outwards. "You can't get hurt."

Marcus is already hurting, but saying so would provide no comfort to Tomas and would only empower the demon, so he doesn't acknowledge it. "What?" he says, tone lightly teasing. "You gonna get me with your teeth?"

It's a test. Tomas or the thing wearing Tomas like a suit passes. There is no smile, no joke. Similarly, there are no threats. Just a weariness that settles on his chest, eyelids seeming to become heavy almost instantly.

"You have to fight it, Tomas."

 _"Yo sé,"_ he says, slipping back into Spanish where he finds himself more comfortable. _"Estoy luchando."_ There's a bright spark for a moment in his eyes. _"Por favor, creéme."_

"I believe in you," he says. And, because he hopes it will make Tomas believe him, he repeats it. _"Creo en ti. Siempre."_

Tomas nods then seizes, his eyes rolling back in agony again. His breathing comes fast and heavy, and Marcus can only wipe the tears from the corners of his eyes, holding him until he falls back against the motel bed, lax.

\-----

Marcus prays over Tomas while he sleeps. The demon doesn't stir, nor does it flinch from Marcus's rosary.

God is in him; Marcus can feel His presence. Somehow, it's not enough. He doubts himself, which is doubting God – a sin if ever there was one – but when there is no proof that he is making headway... how is he supposed to feel?

\-----

"Marcus," Tomas croaks from the bed. Marcus helps him drink cold water, and Tomas must trust him not to have blessed it, that it will not burn because he parts his lips and takes what Marcus gives without hesitation.

There are things Marcus wants to know, but his time with Tomas is precious and easily lost. So he settles for what is, for the moment, relevant. "How're you holding up?"

"Better out here than in there," Tomas says with an attempt at a smile. There is a terrified, haunted look in his eyes.

"That bad, eh?"

"It looks... like every place I've called home. But the-" He searches for a word and fails to find it. "It's all wrong."

"When you can't tell the difference – that's when we need to start worrying." Marcus thinks that it might not be hard. The motel room isn't 'home' to Tomas. That would be his grandmother's, the apartment in Chicago, perhaps even Olivia's apartment. Or Jessica's.

"I am already worried," Tomas confesses.

There's an uncomfortable silence, Tomas's eyes half closed though he jerks again, trying to stay awake. Marcus can't comfort him, but maybe talking will help keep him out of his head. He ventures towards the subject he'd avoided earlier. "What's the demon look like?"

Tomas breathes harder, and Marcus's inner bloodhound latches onto the scent of weakness. He follows the thought quickly, "The seduction. It had to be quick; we're never in one place for long." Interrogation comes naturally to him now; years of finding the lies and contradictions, the soft places to push to get the person to open up.

He supposes he is like a demon in that way.

"Marcus," Tomas says softly. "Please."

"I need to know."

He doesn't, is the thing. It'll help, certainly, but they both know what he just said was a lie.

Tomas writhes, pulling at the binds. A whimper builds in his throat. It is piteous and weak. "It is like looking- watching a 3D movie without the glasses. It hurts."

Marcus nods absently, but he knows Tomas isn't telling him the truth. Not the fullest extent of it anyway. He's omitting something.

"So you saw a horror-movie reject out in the wild and decided to let it into your head, did you?" He keeps his tone soft.

Tomas shakes his head. No, more like he thrashes it. He pulls harder, arching off the bed. Marcus aches to go to him, hold him and soothe him. "Then what was it, Tomas? What did it give you?"

"Nothing, nothing, it gave me nothing," Tomas almost chants. A prayer, a plea. Desperation strains in his voice.

"That's not how this works," Marcus reminds him. "I've rifled through your bag and couldn't find anything out of place." His tone hardens, "Did you send it home?"

"Nothing to send," Tomas mumbles, but in the stillness of the air, the words sound clear as day.

"Do you know how dangerous that is? When we drive it out, it'll have a direct line to Olivia, to Luis."

 _"Te prometo,"_ Tomas says, choking on a sob. Marcus's heart bleeds on his behalf, and it is for that exact reason that he refuses to relent.

 _"Probármelo, Tomas,"_ Marcus hisses, sneering.

Tomas stutters, "It- It looked like you!"

Marcus hesitates. Tomas looks up with him, eyes shining with unshed tears. It's not completely unbelievable. Marcus is the only constant in Tomas's life right now; if a demon wanted to get close, undetected, Marcus would be the way to do it. "And what did it give you?"

Tomas's chest heaves, fingers curling against his palms. His nails are longer than usual, untended, some of the ends cracked. _"Un beso,"_ Tomas whispers, squeezing his eyes closed. Tears run down the side of his face

Marcus feels the brambles gnarled tightly around his heart give way, allowing him to breathe, to feel without every pulse aching down to the center of him. It is a profound relief.

He is freed, to know that this is not Tomas.

"Got bored of playing subtle, did you?" He rises to his feet.

The demon stares up at him with wet eyes and chokes as it speaks: _"Marcus, soy yo."_

"No, it's not," he continues, cracking open the bag that contains the materials he uses for exorcisms. The demon on the bed thrashes.

"It is _me_!" It tries to get its feet under it, but the bindings on Tomas's legs keep it pinned. "And it is the truth! It looked like you, it _kissed_ me because I, I wanted it-"

"I don't doubt it's part of the truth," Marcus says, turning to face the bed again, rosary in one hand and holy water in the other. Now that it's come to the surface, it might feel their effects again. "All the best lies have seeds of truth in them; the most accomplished liars know that."

Tomas's eyes are wide, searching him, fearful – another mistake, for Tomas has no reason to fear him. 

He almost feels _pity_ for the demon that read Tomas this wrong, who is holding on to a crumbling facade.

"I am speaking now to the presence inside Father Tomas Ortega," he says evenly, not yet ready to raise his voice. He can feel God's will in his words or perhaps it is his own self-righteous fury that any thing, no matter how profane and forsaken, would dare mistreat Tomas like this.

"Tell me by some sign your name and the hour of your departure."

It glares at him, silent. For a moment, it looks like Tomas after Marcus has corrected him on something. Petulant and sulking.

"In the name of God," he warns, putting pressure behind his words, tone dropping low and dangerous, "I command you. Tell me by some sign your name and the hour of your departure."

The thing inside Tomas's body holds still, but goosebumps prickle along his arms and his eyes – warm and brown and beautiful – become stained with the color of rust.

"Do you want to know where you went wrong?" Marcus asks, his tone the same one with which he gave the last command. The demon doesn't acknowledge him, so Marcus steps closer to the bed, brandishing the crucifix.

The demon's eyes focus on it, sweat beading anew on his brow. Its breathing becomes labored.

"I'll give you the satisfaction," Marcus promises. It's not a lie; there's no point in lying to a demon. "You only have to admit that it's you."

Its gaze flickers to Marcus, and there's hardly any satisfaction in luring it out. He lets the silence carry unspoken pressure, the air in the room thick with it. Outside, there are birds squawking, dogs barking. Behind the blinds, moths cover the windowpane, blotting out the daylight and leaving them in the dull, flickering yellow lamplight provided by the motel.

In the blink of an eye, the demon abandons its pretense. All signs of Tomas fade as it bares its yellowed teeth in a wicked snarl, red eyes almost seeming to glow. The shaking stops, and when it speaks, it is not with Tomas's voice.

It is as if he is watching a stranger.

"Enlighten me," it says.

"Tomas wouldn't have hesitated to tell me about the kiss," Marcus says. "Not when I asked, and he certainly wouldn't have cried while doing it."

He flicks the holy water and speaks in his gravest tone, "Let's dance, shall we?"

Flesh sizzles and the demon growls.

\-----

He trusts no offered glimpse of Tomas, but he suspects that it is truly Tomas when he thrashes, choking back screams of agony while Marcus is doing little more than praying.

 _"Hace daño,"_ Tomas says before shaking his head. The words falter in English, "It- i- it hurts."

"I know, luv. I know it does."

"I'm ss- sorry. I was weak-"

"You are strong, Tomas," Marcus assures him. "That's why it's going to give up, soon."

Tomas shudders and nods before his back bows up off the bed, a wail in his lungs.

This is not the first time he'll have to explain to the motel's front desk that what he and his lover get up to in their room is none of their business. A moth will flutter in, and he'll crush it without mercy. The eyes on broken wings will stare up at him, and he'll let them.

If the demon watches him, let it see that he is not shaken. He is not afraid.

It will release Tomas.

\-----

"Give in," it commands as if it holds the power here.

"Never," Marcus says easily.

Confidence is a killer. But this wretched thing knows it cannot win.

\-----

The air has grown so thick that Marcus struggles to breathe. The room feels claustrophobic and small, though Marcus has been in smaller for longer. The demon makes the walls seem as though they are pressing in on him, that time is running short.

Tomas's mouth opens to pant, body shuddering.

Lately, it has hurt too much to move. Tomas has been running a high fever, keening miserably with every twitch of his muscles. He is weakened, but he has not been defeated. Not yet.

 _"Respiras,"_ Marcus tells him. Tomas's throat moves as he gulps in air, having trouble catching his breath. His eyes don't open, and Marcus can't exactly blame him. There's not a lot to see out here. Nothing that will make the battle seem more likely to be won. "So long as you're breathing, we can do this."

Silence except for the sound of Marcus's heart in his ears and the heavy, wet breaths being pulled in and forced out of Tomas's lungs. "You're not going to give up on me, are you?" Marcus asks without thinking, dimly aware of the worry in his voice.

If he stops thinking about this, here, and Tomas, he finds himself in a cluttered room in Mexico City, praying frantically for a boy whose immortal soul might be damned to Hell after spending the last several weeks of his life suffering.

Tomas is not Gabriel.

But he is just as mortal as Gabriel. He has his weaknesses; he is so fragile and easily-broken that it's a wonder he hasn't shattered already.

Marcus starts naming saints and pleading for them to lend him their strength as Tomas slips out of consciousness again.

\-----

"Marcus. Marcus!"

He jostles out of the light sleep he'd fallen into, eyes blinking as daylight streams in through the thin curtains. The air feels clearer in his lungs, and Tomas pushes himself up on his elbows. He looks terrible, welts from the holy water on his skin, unwashed hair and face, facial hair growing wildly out of control. He also looks radiant, as if the sun or God's infinite glory inhabits his skin again.

Tomas smiles sheepishly. "I got it."

Marcus knows better than to trust something he's just woken up to, but he has hope. "Did you? How?"

"I- ah. When you were working out here, I would work inside. It had nowhere to go but out." He shrugs. "Or to kill me."

"It could have done," he says almost disapprovingly. But demons try not to kill before the host gives up, before they can achieve integration. By Tomas's bedside, he is warmed by his smile and knowing that Tomas had never given up fighting.

"What would you have me do? Sit by and wait for you to do all the work yourself? I'd never hear the end of it."

"You might not, anyway. Since you let me kiss you and said nothing about it."

A dark look passes over Tomas's face. "You... It said it was a mistake."

"Should've known then. I've never made a mistake in my life."

Tomas looks at him in a way that makes him smile, almost laugh.

"Bet you're dying for a shower."

"You have no idea." The smile doesn't return to Tomas's face, and the pain seems to deepen. "The great Marcus Keane's never been _possessed_."

"Let's keep it that way, yeah?"

"Yes," Tomas agrees. "Let's keep the demons confined to one exorcist if possible."

"Tomas," he reaches out to touch his face. He cups his cheek, thumb smoothing along the rough and uneven facial hair. "Let's keep them out of you, too."

Tomas looks at him with a wounded fondness before he turns his head to kiss Marcus's palm.

Then he sinks his teeth into Marcus's wrist.

"Shit!" The world twists around him, the sun disappearing behind the damn moths and the air growing heavier and stale. Marcus tries to yank his hand back, but the demon's jaw is locked, and its hand, freed by Marcus in his sleep, is crushing Marcus's throat.

A bloody grin greets him when he manages to use his free hand to yank Tomas's hair back, forcing the demon's jaws open. He scrambles to his feet and away. It's not the worst bite he's had, but it's not _great_. 

The demon laughs, a howling sound that chills Marcus to the bone. It turns to start undoing its other hand, and Marcus scrambles onto the mattress, sitting on its waist and forcing its hands back down.

"You're just as stupid as he is," the demon informs him gleefully in the split second before Marcus goes flying off, narrowly missing the chunky TV sitting on top of the plain entertainment center. He smacks into the wall and bounces off, landing on the floor with a heavy _whump_.

Marcus picks himself up as the demon sits up to undo Tomas's ankles. He grabs the thing by the throat and slams it into the mattress, staring into its eyes as his fingers dig into Tomas's skin.

Between his palm and Tomas's throat, the rosary burns.

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I cast you out," he seethes, blood running from his wrist to wet Tomas's skin. "And in the way of Jesus Christ who cast demons from men into swine, I say: ' _Go_.'"

The demon's eyes widen and the air rushes out of the room, leaving Marcus dizzy and weak.

The world goes silent except for the ringing in his ears, and Marcus slips out of consciousness.

\-----

Something cool brushes his forehead, and Marcus tries to open his eyes only to find them covered by a heavy washcloth drenched in cold water. He is on his back, lying on the motel's shitty mattress, soaked through with his own sweat and Tomas's.

The thought makes him panic, but hands catch him before he can sit up.

"Stay," Tomas commands, voice ragged yet gentle as he leads Marcus back down.

"How do I know it's you?" he demands as if his eyes had done him any good earlier.

Tomas picks up Marcus's hands – the wrist has been bandaged in the brief time he was out – and holds the rosary between them. Marcus finds himself clutching at both the beads and Tomas's hands, unwilling to let go of either.

"I think you knocked the motel's power out," Tomas says after a moment, almost chiding, but Marcus can hear the smile in his voice.

"I didn't," Marcus says. "God did."

"Through you." After a moment of consideration, he adds, "And me."

"Glad you included yourself."

"I was fighting, too."

"I know you were." Marcus smiles and slowly releases Tomas's hands to push the cloth off his eyes.

The demon had it wrong – it's not surprising, really, for they often do. Tomas does not look radiant but damaged. He looks miserably but thankfully alive, as filthy as any sinner that has come crawling on their knees to the Father.

Some of Marcus's blood is still on his lips, and Marcus feels the irresponsible urge to kiss it off of him.

"We need to get clean," Tomas says, being the voice of reason while Marcus's head is still spinning. "Then leave. I can't imagine what we'd be charged for almost destroying the room."

It does, in fact, look like a tornado came through it. The TV screen is cracked, but Marcus cannot say if it was before all of this began.

"Are you okay?" he asks, reaching for Tomas's hands.

"No," Tomas says, but his hands are steady in Marcus's own. "It showed me lies. So many lies. Home turned to Hell, and it tried to make me believe I had led you to damnation."

"Tomas," he starts, but Tomas shakes his head.

"I never believed it for longer than a few minutes at a time. I was reciting prayers even while demons laughed. Even when they showed me you were hurt." His gaze drags sadly over Marcus's form; his ragged clothes, his injured wrist, his sharp, malnourished face. "I'm sad to see that it wasn't all in my head."

"It wasn't your fault."

Tomas hums a disagreeing noise. "I kissed you, then thought better not to speak of it-"

"Because," Marcus insists firmly, "part of you knew it was wrong." Tomas's eyes fall away, and Marcus squeezes his hands, pulling him closer until he can embrace him and murmur in his ear. "Part of you knew I wouldn't call it a mistake."

Tomas chokes out a weak noise, shaking in his arms. "You're making me think it's still in me."

"I'll prove it to you someday. If not today or tomorrow then years from now, if need be. If you'll still want me."

"I haven't stopped yet," Tomas confesses burying his head against Marcus's neck.

For a moment, they sit like that, the two of them holding one another tightly and both afraid of waking up.

**Author's Note:**

> Spanish dialogue done to the best of my ability; if someone has corrections, shoot 'em my way over at zaxal.tumblr.com.
> 
> This is my first time writing a full fic for these disaster men; I'd love feedback!


End file.
